


Just A Taste Of What You Paid For

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aftercare, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Come Eating, Developing Relationship, Do you eat ass ass ass, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, Food Issues, Friends to Lovers, Geralt eats ass ass ass, Hiccups, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22345633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: On a rare tavern night, Jaskier overindulges in comfort food. Geralt helps him navigate the discomfort that follows, satisfying both their cravings in the process.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 404





	Just A Taste Of What You Paid For

**Author's Note:**

> Song title from The Ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic At The Disco.
> 
> This was not the first venture into this fandom that I expected but here we go!
> 
> I do not own and not beta'ed so let's all on our swords like Geralt would want. If food issues and belly rubs is your thing, enjoy x

Geralt frowned as he entered the hall that led towards his sleeping quarters. The noises emanating from within, several metres away, would’ve been imperceptible to the unaltered ear. 

Moans, more specifically. Pleasurable sighs that would’ve been discreet, were his travel companion and even less desirable bed fellow less inclined towards making his every waking utterance into a performing art. 

As he reached the door, a prolonged whine broadcast its occupancy with little disregard for their neighbours accompanied by a peculiar rustling. 

Standing rigidly outside, Geralt brushed off the sudden warm sensation bruising the deathly pale white skin of his chest. This wasn’t the first time he’d interrupted the human’s fumbling attempts at intimacy (coupled or otherwise). 

The squeak inside that follows the sound of him clapping thunderously outside makes it all worth it.

“One minute!” Jaskier’s cry is muffled as though he’s been gagged, words spilling out in a broken jumble. 

“If you could hold a tune for that long during one of your tavern solos, I wouldn’t have to hear that damn song so often.” Geralt comments dryly, even more perplexed when he hears what can only be loud swallowing. 

The door creaks in protest as he test his weight against it, toys with the idea of breaking it down with his shoulder just to catch him in the middle of whatever obviously depraved act he’s been orchestrating. Who says he doesn’t have a sense of humour? 

“Too many blows to the head has affected your hearing, you absolute brute.” The frantic scrambling and whispered profanities are interrupted only for the sharp reply, “You wouldn’t know talent if it bit you on your chamomile scented bottom!” 

“I’ll remember that sweet sentiment the next time something with fangs takes aim at your vocal chords.” Geralt retorts with a roll of his eyes, before testing the handle to find it open. Doesn’t think too much of it, pushes and twists. Just because his life is extended doesn’t mean he’s willing to wait for eternity and subtly has never been his strong point. 

“Don’t!”

The sight before him leaves Geralt blinking owlishly, golden eyes needing a second to adjust in the dim light though none is required whatsoever.

The bedspread is completely debauched and the bard within it looks entirely caught off guard. 

It’s moments like this where the defensive ability to process unnnecessary details, assess an entire scenario in a millisecond, is more curse than comfort. 

Jaskier’s pupils are engorged, black eclipsing the clear blue of his eyes. His tongue, ever restless, slips out to run over his dusky pink lips. His cheeks are rosy with drink.

The peaks of his pinched nipples construct starkly with his pale skin, coloured by a blush of embarrassment, splitting his chest to his neck like a wound, trailing down to...

Well....

His modestly is covered with a hastily positioned pillow, but that isn’t what catches Geralt’s attention, breathe catching in his throat.

“Must you always be naked?” He sighs. 

“The physical form is a thing to be exposed, not hidden away, even if you are a mutant terrified of exposure to sunlight.” Jaskier shoots back indignantly, “Honestly Geralt, it’s amazing more people don’t mistake you for a vampire or an entire other kind of night walker all together with your incessant need to be covered from head to toe in leather at all times.” 

“Says the exhibitionist.” 

“You couldn’t have given me a second of privacy to get decent?” Jaskier huffs accusitorily, blushing harder, willing the Witcher’s too perceptive eyes back up to his face, “Don’t see me invading your personal space, demanding to know where you were gallivanting to for hours on end!”

“Selling the two selkimore I killed on three hours sleep so we had the coin to afford the luxuriant hospitality that you have clearly taken advantage of in my absence.” Geralt replies, glancing upward briefly but unable to help himself as his eyes wander back downward.

“The bedding is most suitable, thank you!” Jaskier’ pitch is slightly hysterical, panicked despite his attempt to maintain his clipped tone, “I know you’re adopted but didn’t the heathens that raised you in the Rivian backwater teach you that it’s rude to stare?” 

Geralt hums non-commitally, drowning out Jaskier’s whining protests as he takes in the absolute state the human has got himself in.

His mid section is undeniably swollen, responding to the rich tavern fare after weeks subsisting on the sparse rations of the road. The sight is a strange one on the bard, usual so prim and proper in his fitted flamboyant doublet that he no doubt discarded as soon as he began eating. 

“My kind usually struggle to be received as it is.” Geralt comments offhandedly as Jaskier visibly squirms under his persistent gaze, “The lodgers will take even less kindly to us if you’ve eaten them out of their stores.” 

Jaskier’s eyes narrow sharply as Geralt’s eyes wander to the dirty plates dumped beside the bed, the bread crumbs scattered on the sheets. Not just poor housekeeping then.

He opens his mouth to retort before interrupting himself with a loud belch that surprises them both. 

“Melitele pardon me.” He whispers with a look of mortification. Geralt can’t help the grin that breaks out of his face at the outburst, the corners of his mouth erupting from a mere twitch into a full blown smirk. 

“You speak of my manners with a mouth like that.” He quips, stepping smoothly to grab a half finish tankard of ale before returning to the foot of the bed. He swallows the contents, which are still warm but not entirely unwelcome to his parched lips, to give Jaskier a moment to compose himself under the weight of his scrutiny. 

“I didn’t mean to...” Jaskier begins, before hiccuping loudly and burying his face in his hands with a groan.

“Don’t apologise on my behalf, I quite like you like this.” Geralt smirks between sips as Jaskier closes his mouth to regroup, his ears burning hotter than the pleasantly beckoning flames in the hearth. 

The single hiccup turns into a fit of gentle yipping sounds that silence the bard for blessedly longer than Geralt is used to. He continues drinking, watching, wondering what he did to deserve such a gift when he noticed Jaskier slam his eyes shut as he rubs soothingly at the hardened curve of his belly, seeking comfort as his throat spasms. 

The motions are almost hypnotic in their repetitiveness, caressing the swollen jut of his smooth skin, unmarked by the ugly blemishes that adorn the Witcher’s. The firelight plays tricks with his keen eyes, casting illusions, hinting at the attractive marks that would wear upon the surface with age and continued consumption if he were better kept, lived the life of aristocracy he was born into.

Instead he withholds, following Geralt around, surviving on the scraps of his hunts and the morsels of his attention tossed sporadically his way. Starving himself of necessities that Geralt has long since discarded as wants rather than needs.

A heavy weight settles uneasily on the Witcher’s chest. Not for the first time since meeting Jaskier did he wish that all the presumptions concerning the emotional capacity of his kind were more than fables. 

“Out with it then.” Jaskier manages finally. 

Geralt coughs uneasily, torn from his disturbingly sentimental musings. 

“Hmm?”

“You think I’m a freak.” Jaskier challenges, chin raised, hardened pale eyes sparkling like precious stones. The bright colour in his cheeks and the white knuckled defensive death grip he has on the pillow belie his bravery. 

“You shouldn’t throw that work around so lightly in my presence.” Geralt growls, finding himself feeling oddly on edge, stepping forward without realising. Halting when Jaskier just catches himself from recoiling.

“You think I’m disgusting.” Jaskier spits bitterly, sounding more pathetic than he intends to, shoulders slumping dejectedly. 

His stomach gurgles loudly in agreement and fuck if that sound doesn’t do something queer to Geralt’s insides.

“Fuck.” He says without even thinking, inhaling sharply before exhaling loudly out of his nose.

“So you don’t deny it then?” Jaskier continues, blind to the effect he’s had, yanking the pillow higher to offer what little coverage he had to his sensitive belly like a vulnerable animal attempting to protect its soft underside from a predator.

The movement is just on the right side of wrong and Geralt finds himself dropping onto his knees on the bed as Jaskier gasps, in front of him before his body has even comprehended that its doubling over against the pain.

“I wish you’d fucking told me you were starving, you presumptuous little shit!” Geralt grunts, doing his best to reduce his tone to an irritated snarl, ignoring the undercurrent of concern spiking through his veins. No time for that now.

“If I wanted a lecture from an arrogant prick on how to live my life, I would’ve stayed at Oxenfurt!” Jaskier spits back, before another cramp robs him of the ability to speak, gasping for breathe as his hands clutch desperately at his seizing abdomen. 

Though it would be so easy to get up and walk out of the room, Geralt knows that in this particular instance combativeness isn’t going to subdue the man before him. Not only is it agitating him, but the younger man’s dangerously elevated vital signs are escalating towards a panic attack. 

“You need to relax.” Geralt instructs between gritted teeth as Jaskier begins to gasp for breath. 

“Says the - calmest man on -the entire - Continent!” Jaskier wheezes between another fit of hiccups, head bowed and his entire frame shakes. Rather than assist, his bent form is making it even more difficult for his airways to function. 

Geralt grabs Jaskier chin rougher than intended, forcing his head up. 

“Focus on me, Jas.” Geralt demands, burying his desperate desire to shake some sense into the younger man who’s got himself so worked up, “You need to take a breath and the pain will subside.” 

When the only response he receives is a desperate whine, Geralt acts before he can regret his decision.

Moving faster than the other can blink, Geralt covers Jaskier’s mouth, parted in surprise with his own, swallowing the startled hiccup of surprise it forces out of him. 

The act is purely clinical, driven by instinct. Bracing his calloused hand on the warm back of the bard’s neck so he can’t flee, Geralt forces himself to see through the mist of sensation that descends upon his senses. The soft brush of the individual raised hairs on his cold palm, nostrils inhaling with the familiar scent of sweat and beer and dirt and smoke buried in the pores after weeks on the road. 

He deposits his breath down the other man’s constricting neck without thinking about it, attempting to force some air back into the struggling lungs. 

As Jaskier splutters helplessly, Geralt silences him again, surprising them both when he closes his lips over the bards. When he opens his mouth again, it’s only to close it and kiss the other man. 

It’s been a long time and he feels the way on instinct, moving fluidly and forcefully. Chases the familiar blend of ale and the hearty juices of seasoned meat and the pure essence of the human, a mix of wild flowers and earthiness. Doesn’t even realise his tongue has delved in to the other man’s mouth, twisting and shoving in pursuit until he’s shoved back and away. 

Jaskier looks like a wild thing cornered from where he’s pressed back against the headboard, hair sticking up unflatteringly, lips a bloodied ruin in the paleness of his face, eyes blown wide in panic.

Fuck indeed.

“What the holy hell was that?” Jaskier splutters, a scandalous hand clutching faintly at his neck, an attractive splotchiness decorating his fair collarbone. 

Geralt remains silent, sitting back on his haunches, removing himself from contact. A tense beat passes between them as Jaskier swallows hard, breathing beginning to settle back into a regular rhythm.

Incredulity transforms to awe and Geralt realise belatedly that maybe the destiny he’s been trying to outride has been his shadow all along. 

If he were concerned about the status of their friendship, Jaskier doesn’t leave him to stew for long, breaking the silence finally with an unimpressed snort. 

“Do you assault all the maids you deem to be saving in such a manner? I know you’re centuries old, but we modernists tend to discourage that sort of aggressive behaviour in these more progressive times, you know.” He manages finally, looking up from beneath obscenely dark lashes as his hand drops to rub his belly gingerly. 

Geralt rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure the whites must be visible. 

“Shut you up, didn’t it?” 

“I think not!” Jaskier shoots back argumentative, blushing even more furiously and licking his lips in an unconscious motion that the Witcher follows predatorily, “As the voice of a generation, I’ll give my opinion whether you like it or not...”

“The hiccups.”

Jaskier shocklingly does indeed fall silent at that, wincing again before responding after a beat. 

“Oh.” 

“Though physically throttling you would’ve been preferable, surprising you was the next best option in your...delicate condition.” Geralt returns easily. 

“I’m eternally in your debt.” Jaskier hisses and the playful sheen leaves Geralt’s eyes. 

“Why?” He asks seriously. 

“You’ll laugh.”

“More than I have during the course of our friendship thus far?” 

Jaskier uses the time in between cramps to mull over his words, panting lightly as he leans back slightly on his hands to give his distended middle more room. 

“In the crudest terms possible, I like how it feels.” He gestures downward awkwardly, normally silver laced tongue stumbling in his confession. 

“Hmmm.” 

“You know...the fullness.” 

The pillow has been discarded during their contact and the low firefight is doing nothing to conceal just how much Jaskier enjoys the sensation. 

His prick curves upwards, pink and inviting, bobbing against the rounded surface.

“Yeah?” Geralt replies, low voice too rough, subtly adjusting his stance to accomodate the accompanying strain in his own pants. 

Jaskier notices, blues eyes widening in surprise. He thighs part imperceptibly, cock jerking prettily as his mouth runs away with him and Geralt doesn’t even bother to hide his own low groan of arousal.

“Y-yes...it must seem strange to you,” Jaskier says, giving him an out to steer the conversation into less precarious territory. 

“Try me.” Geralt dips his head conspiratorially, dropping back to sit on his heels to ease the ache. 

“I’ve always enjoy the excessive abandon of feasting at court,” The bard explains, unable to meet the others face as he lowers his head to his still straining stomach self consciously, “Less frequently now as a wanderer, but I indulge the urge when I can,”

“Go on.” Geralt urges.

“There’s a strange thrill in testing the limits of...your capacity, pushing yourself past the point where you think you can’t take anymore.” Jaskier allows his eyes to flutter closed, losing himself in the words. 

The hand supporting his weight fists in the bedsheets as the other runs tantalisingly over his bare stomach, soothing the loud grumbling it emits. 

Geralt is powerless to do anything but watch, even as his own length drags insistently against his too-confining trousers, encouraging a more active involvement in the display playing out before him.

“But you’re in pain.”

“It will subside. Usually the reaction isn’t this severe, but does true satisfaction exist without sacrifice?” Jaskier all but moans, biting his lip as his belly protests beneath his wandering hand.

It wanders lower to massage the delicate strip just above his hip bones, seeking further relief,  
eliciting a gasp as his fingers skim over the dribbling tip of his manhood. 

“Fuck that.” Geralt spits in disagreement, tolerance at the end of its tether. 

When he moves this time, Jaskier meets him, emitting a startled squeak when Geralt pushes him gently onto his back by his shoulders.

Hovering above the smaller man, Geralt dips down on his forearms as Jaskier pushes up wantonly, their mouths melding forcefully. 

“Such tenderness from someone who claims to be inhuman,” Jaskier jokes thinly as Geralt breaks off. One of the hands protectively cupping the swell of his middle shoots up to grab the headboard, grounding him against the onslaught. 

He swallows the jest with a wet gasp as Geralt laves his tongue over the dusky peak of his nipple while twisting the other sharply before continuing his descent.

Jaskier slams his eyes shut, writhing desperately as the Witcher drags his tongue down the valley of his chest, chasing the trail of sweat beading there. 

“Why are there no songs about Witchers being great lovers again?” He wonders aloud, words pleasantly slurred.

“Do you always talk so much in bed and say so little? Should’ve let the djinn take your voice and done all those conquests of yours a favour.” Geralt says, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. 

His hands move to explore the expanse of the bard’s belly, huge calloused hands roaming gently over the engorged surface. Jaskier’s back arches off the bed as he presses into the touch. 

“You could never be so cruel.” Jaskier huffs, unable to keep the whine out of his voice. 

“You’ve no fucking idea what I’m capable of.” Geralt says. He removes his hands with a twinge before moving intently to settle in between the other man’s trembling thighs, shoving them apart forcefully. 

“That may not be the best idea!” Jaskier whimpers, scrambling self consciously to sit up on his elbows. 

His stomach gives a particularly loud protest as his cock dribbles insistently, smearing the surface with precome. 

“You don’t want to be stuffed?” Geralt questions, golden eyes shimmering as they train on his pretty pink entrance.

The sound Jaskier makes in response is one of the sweetest things Geralt has ever heard pass his lips. When the strain causes his entrance to pucker, winking an invitation, Geralt doesn’t think twice before diving at it headlong.

“What the...oh Geralt, fuck!” Jaskier cries out as Geralt’s tongue breaches the tight ring of muscle without hesitation.

The tremors that wrack his body are a sight to behold as Geralt begins to explore. The bard’s hips buck helplessly as he massages the tight inner walls, circulating and prodding. 

“Oh my...where did you...hngghh...” Jaskier groans, eyes rolling back into his skull when Geralt pins his hips with a sturdy forearm. The force pressed into his lower abdomen, which must hurt given its sensitivity, but only claws out another moan from the bard. 

“Hmmm.” Geralt hums, reverberations sending a seismic wave from the human’s toes to the top of his spine. Even without being able to see his reactions around the mound of his stomach, he can feel Jaskier tensing and unclenching wildly around his tongue as it if were another appendage entirely. 

He jolts to a halt for a second, pulling out when he feels his cock jerk hard, head lifting as he feels a hot spurt of wetness stain the front of his tunic. He cannot remember the last time he was this aroused from pleasuring another person, so close to getting off without even receiving anything in return.

Fucking bard, turning him all sentimental.

The rustling of the bedsheets signals Jaskier struggling into his elbows, mistaking the cessation of action with another entirely less pleasant motive. 

“Geralt...you don’t have t-to...”

He must be an absolute sight for Jaskier to stutter like that, frozen as though entranced with his mouth deliciously wide as he takes in the view of the Witcher bowed between his spread legs.

Giving himself a hard tug at the base, Geralt licks his already spit-shiny lips lewdly, savouring the after taste. His face must be a mess, gaze intensely golden, hair messily framing his face, nose and chin and cheekbones drenched. The picture of a predator interrupted whilst devouring the choices selection of its prize. 

“If only my hands were blessed with the filthy ability my mouth was...” Jaskier murmurs almost reverently, openly ogling. 

“Really?” Geralt cocks an eyebrow suggestively. He knows how he looks and can’t suppress an easy grin at the effect he is having on the human. 

“I meant to capture this...m-moment with an image rather than words!” Jaskier splutters indignantly, as Geralt grinds his hips impatiently into the bedding to take the edge off, “Who knew you were dirtier than me? Physically obviously, but cerebrally...”

Determined to derail any further conversation, Geralt cuts him off by ducking his head back down to nip at the tender lip of his rim, pinching the skin with a single canine. 

“Shit!” 

When Jaskier is reduced to a messy litany of profanity and writhing limbs, Geralt slides his finger into the warm, welcoming clutch of his opening and thrust emphatically. 

“Never start a meal I don’t intend on finishing.” He says, grinning lewdly as Jaskier throws his head back, thrusting inward and upward as the human nearly bounces off the mattress, spreading his legs wider to accomodate the stretch.

He’s deliciously tight, body trying to fight the intrusion, but so slick from the earlier ministrations that the second finger joins the first with little resistance, sliding into the passage with an obscene pop. 

Ever the dramatic, Jaskier makes a noise like he’s been wounded, but still immediately attempts to fuck himself greedily back onto Geralt’s wrist (and there’s an image to explore at a later date when Geralt isn’t actively trying not to nut in his only clean pair of riding pants). 

“Please....more...” He pleads shamelessly as Geralt continues to pin him, continues to scissor him open with tortuous deliberation.

“Tell me how it feels, wordsmith.” 

Jaskier swallows dryly, panting heavily. 

“It feels like...being cleaved in half by twin blows by a worthy foe, blissful in the -  
knowledge that a noble death awaits...” 

“Less theatrics, hmm?” Geralt directs with a grunt of disapproval. He twists his fingers in tandem and strikes viciously upward to be rewarded with a shriek that causes the candle on the bedside table to flicker with such force that it’s nearly snuffed out.

Jaskier hisses between gritted teeth. His abdomen is clenching in time with Geralt’s thrusts, interspersing wildly swinging misses with stabs that are mercilessly accurate. Like swordplay, the process of engaging and leading the opponent to the outcome is more satisfying that the killing blow. 

Jaskier’s grip on Geralt’s relentless fingers is vice like. His thighs twitch in time with the movements, shivering with a sheen of sweat. The swell of his tender belly protrudes, arching towards the ceiling as Jaskier is driven off the bed by each surge of pleasure. 

“It feels like being taken apart by brutal, capable hands, hands that have delivered death and defended the living from it,” Jaskier moans whorishly, “This must be torture in its most insidious form, to be suspended on the edge of the relief from pain with no surrender in sight.” 

“If you want to come this century, you’re going to have to be a lot less metaphorical than that.” 

When no response is forthcoming, Geralt stills his hand, threatening to pull out until Jaskier clenches frantically around him. His ankles leap off the bed to lock around Geralt’s head. 

“Please,” Jaskier gasps, bright eyes imploring, shining with unshed tears. He’s so close, Geralt can taste it in the air as a fresh flood of slick coats his fingers thickly. 

“Don’t beg, just tell me what’s in your head.” Geralt says, beginning to move again encouragingly.

“Oh, you want me to talk dirty to you?” Jaskier clarifies, an innocent beginning with a filthy inflection at the end. 

“Well I deserve to get something out of this, don’t I?” Geralt replies, before adding with deadly intent, “Take your time, but be honest or I’ll leave you like this.” 

“Hmmm,” Jaskier ponders as though in meditation, crying out when Geralt jams a finger jarringly into the spot that makes his body convulse violently, “You are making it rather difficult to form a coherent thought.” 

“You play for crowds who jeer and throw rotten food at you, how hard can it be?” Geralt snorts, deliberately slowing his pace again.

“Fine you absolute bastard, you want to know the truth?” Jaskier groans, cheeks aflame as his eyes fall shut in concentration, embarrassment and arousal only enhancing his pretty features in the dim firelight. 

“Because you’re a dolt with no sense of boundaries, I left the door open so you’d find me...”

Fuck.

Unable to think of a response that won’t betray that he did in fact have no fucking idea, Geralt retaliates by biting sharply into the meat of Jaskier’s thigh. The pin pricks of blood and the howl of discomfort are retribution enough. 

“Fine!” Jaskier wails, rambling as his pleasure begins to crescendo, “Granted, I was also in a bit of a rush, but part of me wanted you to walk in on me...gorging myself...” 

Geralt speeds up his ministrations, deliberately missing the spot that would send Jaskier over the edge, too enraptured with his words. 

“Once I’d finished...” The flush of arousal has spread from Jaskier’s chest, blooming like the reaching petals of a flower all the way down to the achingly red tip of his cock, “...I was so full and sleepy that my mind began to wander. I was so glutted that I couldn’t manage another bite, yet still I wanted more...then I thought of you...” 

“Hmmm.” Geralt murmured in affirmation, finally dropping his head back down. When his tongue forced its way to join with the two fingers, he groaned as the rim stretched to accomodate its girth.

“Oooh gods, right there!” Jaskier crows, “You and how you could fill me up...find me lying there, fat and groggy and wanting like a maiden heavy with child, an overindulged princess awaiting your attentions.”

“You’d walk in without a word and shove your fist in my mouth when I tried to speak, using all my useless holes at your will. You’d find my modesty dripping in anticipation, so wet you wouldn’t even have to wait before splitting me in half with that unsheathed monstrosity...”

Geralt is so turned on that it takes all of his will power not to abandon his task and put the fantasy laid out for him into motion. Instead he increases his intensity, fucking forward with his tongue, devastating the bard’s remaining willpower.

“When you were finished you’d plug me up, leave a toy inside of me so I’d stay stretched for your next visit, be it in hours or weeks,” Jaskier moaned, completely wrecked, “Stuff me full of your seed so my belly would remain distended until you returned, left swollen and sore inside and out...”

Geralt growls in agreement, so enraptured in the story that it takes him by surprise when Jaskier’s reaches his peak. 

He feels it before he hears it, velveteen insides pulsing around his tongue and fingers as Jaskier shrieks, a piercing note that is purer than anything Geralt has ever heard crooned to an audience or during his composing. Continues to fuck him through it, pining down his torso as he threatens to concertina, shooting upright with the force of the pleasure. 

Wiping his hand across his mouth, he lifts himself up to find that Jaskier seems to have temporarily lost consciousness.

Confident his breathing is fine, Geralt busies himself cleaning the bard off.

When Jaskier opens his eyes with a gasp, it’s to find Geralt licking the stripes of drying seed from his chest.

“I’ve got you, Jas, you’re safe.” Geralt affirms, cupping the back of his head reassuringly before returning to his task. 

“Oh my...you can’t just...” Jaskier blubbers, eyes frantically wide as Geralt continues about his task. Not the most pleasant thing in the world, but saves him leaving the bed so points for efficiency. 

“Still as incoherent as ever.” Geralt mutters, hoping the human can’t feel the genuine smile he’s attempting to conceal between licks. 

“...go around...doing...looking...like that!” Jaskier finishes lamely. 

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks as he pulls off, licking his fingers before covering his mouth to shield a burp. 

“Like that was simultaneously the most abhorrent and sexy thing I’ve ever seen.” Jaskier groans before dragging Geralt in for a kiss. This one is sweeter than the rest, firm in its intent, so overwhelmingly warm with gratitude that Geralt almost doesn’t know what to do with the heat spreading in his chest, unsure if it’s embarrassment or something more sinister, more sentimental.

“I highly doubt that.” Geralt murmurs, voice low and slightly too fond.

He notices Jaskier is shivering, coming down from the high and moves to cover them both with a blanket. A quick flick of his fingers reinvigorates the fire as he removes his clothes and slides back into the bed. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier mumbles, his head pillowing against the naked expanse of Geralt’s broad chest. It should feel uncomfortable with all the undefinable newness between them, but instead it feels right and Geralt doesn’t want to examine that too closely in the afterglow of their intimacy. 

“You’re still hard,” Jaskier frowns, pulling Geralt from his musings as he reaches under the blanket towards him, “Let me....” 

“I’ll handle it later,” Geralt waves him off, “How’s your stomach?”

“Doesn’t hurt...too relaxed...oooohhh...” Jaskier sighs as Geralt manoeuvres him onto his side and slots in behind him to rub at the still obvious curve. 

The silence between them stretches comfortably, breathing evening out.

“You know why I used to do it, Geralt?” Jaskier whispered, already half in a dream, still drunk on sex. 

The Witcher remained silent, almost sure Jaskier had fallen asleep before another whisper penetrated the darkness.

“As a visitor to court, not knowing when my next meal would be, feasting made me feel secure. Whether I ended up in someone else’s bed or alone, the heaviness made me feel secure.” 

“And now?”

“Don’t need that to feel safe anymore.”


End file.
